


The Education of Hugo Stiglitz

by Renne



Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Come Marking, Dominance, Flogging, Frottage, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the tavern shootout goes better than expected and Archie Hicox is well pissed off at the behaviour of a certain Jerry Basterd. Attempts at re-education ensue with limited success (depending on your point of view).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Education of Hugo Stiglitz

He wasn't just angry when they got back to the ruins, he was furious. The bloody Yanks couldn't seem to understand why he was so angry; it was just Stiglitz, they said. No harm done. Except they'd come so close to losing everything thanks to the Jerry. That damn Sturmbannführer had been far too sharp for his own good and now Wicki sat on the sagging bed by the wall, cleaning blood out from under his fingernails with his knife. He'd just shrugged when Hicox had pointed out how close Stiglitz had come to blowing the whole operation with his twitching and snarling. 

"He is who he is," Wicki had said in that rough, deep voice, with an indifferent shrug.

It certainly put Hicox on edge at the thought of even taking the Jerry near Goebbels' premiere. If what Bridget von Hammersmark had said about the Führer being in attendance was true, that might be bait enough to get the Jerry to behave until they needed his brand of psychopath. On the other hand, Stiglitz might lose it at the first sight of a red swastika armband and slaughter everything in sight. 

When Hicox had brought it up to Raine, the Yank had looked exactly as concerned as Wicki had been over Stiglitz nearly blowing the tavern rendezvous. "You got a problem with it?" He gestured towards the door. "Well then, you go sort it out." 

A couple of the little Basterds sniggered. 

Hicox knew they thought their pet Jerry would flog him. Hell, they probably thought he deserved to be brought down a notch, but no ordinary rank – not even a brute like Stiglitz, with his list of Gestapo scalps (men, brutally murdered in their beds and homes, not something that took great skill) – was going to pull one over on him. He mightn't have the mad strength of a German berserker, but he had training and experience to back him up. He'd fought worse than Stiglitz at Bardia; this Jerry had nothing on the crack troops of the Afrika Korps. And if he could survive that—

Hicox's first mistake was underestimating the Jerry. 

Perhaps to his defence – in sheer stupidity – he hadn't been expecting Stiglitz to jump him the moment he pushed the door open. He'd been thinking more along the lines of a few firm words and then a sound thrashing to sort the disagreeable German out.

But Stiglitz got the upper hand straight away, pouncing the second the door opened sufficiently and knocking Hicox to the side, the door slamming shut again even as Stiglitz was on him, big, strong hands wrapped around his throat as Hicox's shoulders crashed against the wall. He faintly heard Raine's little Basterds holler with glee before they were shushed by the Bear Jew, his voice the most distinctive after the deep tones of Wicki and Raine's own appalling twang. The spasm of Stiglitz's hands around Hicox's neck dragged him back to the immediate.

Hicox had expected Stiglitz's face to be a twisted mask of rage, a violently grim aspect to match the violence of his actions, but instead he was studied, calm. A faint tightening of muscles as he dragged Hicox to the side and they crashed to the floor, his focussed gaze – ice-blue and ice-hard – never shifting from Hicox's. Was this what Stiglitz had looked like when he'd killed those Gestapo? Focussed and intent and looking all the time like he was doing this on his leisure? This was not where Hicox had imagined his mind to go, on impending death at the hands of a Jerry turncoat.

Stiglitz's hands tightened incrementally and Hicox clawed at his fingers; he needed to get the Jerry off balance to regain control of the situation. He twisted beneath Stiglitz's hands, rolling his shoulders and arching his hips in an attempt to dislodge the Jerry. Surprisingly, it seemed to work. Stiglitz jerked away from him, letting go of Hicox's throat like he'd been scalded and back pedalling away. 

Hicox scooted back himself until his shoulders pressed up against the wall and he pushed into a sitting position, rubbing at his throat with a wince. The Jerry hadn't gone far enough to leave him with any lasting damage, just an aching rasp in his voice as he said, a touch sardonically, "Enjoyed that perhaps a little too much, hmm?"

Taunting the Jerry. That was an excellent idea. Blimey, if he didn't get this situation under control soon...

Stiglitz's lip curled. "I always enjoy killing...  _sir_ ," he said eventually, his English a heavily accented sneer. 

"Mm." Hicox looked at Stiglitz speculatively. It wasn't like the big German hadn't had ample time to choke the life out of him; he'd easily caught Hicox unaware and gained control through that surprise. But he'd either been very keen on drawing out the British Commando's death as long as possible or, and Hicox almost preferred the first option, he wished to prove to Hicox that he wouldn't be disciplined; that he held the upper hand and had chosen of his own volition not to take Hicox's life. "Not like this, I think."

Stiglitz's next attack was ridiculously clumsy and he telegraphed his movements so clearly Hicox almost laughed at the simplicity of it. The SS dagger Hicox had seen Stiglitz sharpening before the tavern rendezvous winked in the light of the lamp as the Jerry tried brute strength to wear him down in more of a fair fight. 

But fair it wasn't.

Ready for this attack, Hicox fended the Jerry off rather easily, using Stiglitz's strength against him as he twisted until he was on top of the other man, bearing down with his own not-so-insignificant weight. "Enjoying this too?" Hicox rasped and grinned. This smile had far more humour in it than the false toothy pleasure he'd directed at the Sturmbannführer in the  _La Louisiane_  tavern. 

But his humour was lost on Stiglitz, who scowled blackly up at him, puffing and straining as he tried to bury his knife in Hicox's throat. 

"That is enough," Hicox scolded, sliding his hand from around Stiglitz's wrist to his hand, slamming it down hard against the floor. 

Hicox squeezed Stiglitz's hand hard. He could feel the flex deep in the bones of Stiglitz's hand, any harder and the bones would break, and pain twisted through Stiglitz's expression. Tempting as it was, he didn't want to bust up the German's hand before the premiere and instead whacked it sharply again, twice against the floor. Stiglitz hissed with pain and eventually his fingers loosened, the blade clattering free against heavily scarred timber. 

There was no time to think this over, however, and Hicox had to move quickly. Still gripping Stiglitz's hand and pinning the other heavily with his knee on Stiglitz's wrist, Hicox snaked out his free hand quickly to snatch up the leather belt lying discarded on the floor next to a pile of civilian clothes. It was the belt from Stiglitz's SS uniform and Stiglitz's head snapped around at the heavy jingle of the buckle. Hicox clipped him across the temple with the back of his fist, hard enough to stun the Jerry, to rattle him enough to give Hicox time to loop the belt around one wrist, before flicking the strap around his other wrist, pulling them together and binding them tight.

Stiglitz's instinct was to struggle, of course, but thick, supple leather bound properly was caused hells own difficulty to escape. This was something Hicox knew from experience; he still wore the scars from his time in a North African POW camp. It was well known that Erwin Rommel was a gentleman to his captives, but Hicox hadn't had the pleasure of being hosted by the Desert Fox. The Italians weren't so kind to the British Commandos they'd captured, and he'd suffered great abuse at their hands before Rommel had found out about him and his fellow captives. He repaid Rommel's kindness in their infinitely improved treatment at the hands of the Germans – including the best hospital treatment for the worst of his injuries – by escaping as soon as possible.

Breathing heavily, Hicox pushed himself to his feet, hauling Stiglitz after him by the leather belt. Stiglitz was still a little dazed from Hicox's blow and he staggered a little, shaking his head to clear it. Not keen on giving Stiglitz time to reorient himself, Hicox dragged him over to the heavy cast iron bed end, using the tail of the belt to bind his hands securely to the bed.

He'd expected the man to struggle more, but it was only when Hicox bent and picked up the knife that Stiglitz snarled and tugged against his bonds. Clearly he didn't appreciate anyone touching his knife – or maybe it was just Hicox. The blade felt perfectly weighted in his hands; to give the SS credit where due, they crafted a perfect dagger for their carbon copy soldiers. Hicox wondered just which of his kills Stiglitz had taken the knife from.

He gently, carefully ran his finger along the edge of the blade. Not quite razor sharp, but not far off it.

The slightest of burrs on the tip of the knife caught in the groove of his finger, nicking a tiny cut into his flesh. Hicox squeezed a droplet of blood to the surface before smearing it over his fingertip. He ran his fingers over the metal again, a light, thin smear of red sullying the shining blade. Stiglitz watched his hands, still now but for the rise and fall of his chest, his rage replaced by something even more unsettling. Something... hungry.

"'My honour is loyalty'," Hicox murmured the words written on the blade. "True enough for the SS, I should say, but what of you? What of your honour and loyalty?" He glanced up at Stiglitz. "Where does your loyalty lie?"

Stiglitz didn't speak; he just stared at the knife.

"You want it, don't you." No, not a question. It didn't need to be a question. Hicox could see the answer in Stiglitz's eyes, in the way his body arched ever so subtly towards Hicox. 

Moistening his lips, Hicox stepped closer to the bed. He didn't think, just acted, lifting the blade and pressing it against Stiglitz's collar. The man had shrugged out of his SS tunic and the material of his shirt strained across ridiculously broad shoulders. It didn't take much for the blade to pass through the material as Hicox methodically slit the shirt from Stiglitz's body, stripping it down to Stiglitz's waist. 

Hicox felt no compunction destroying the shirt. It wasn't like they were ever going to need it again, since after the next night either the war would either be over or they all would be dead. 

His lips parted in a soft sigh when he took in the heavy scarring that striped Stiglitz's back. He pressed the flat of the knife against the small of Stiglitz's back and gently ran his fingers over the ridges and valleys of scar tissue. There were old scars, mostly healed well but for the newer, fresher weals laid over them. The worst was a cut curling around Stiglitz's side. It had the look of a wound that had been infected and healed poorly. Bad nutrition and living in leaf litter in the French forest wasn't good for the Jerry.

There was a strange, horrific beauty in the lines of scar tissue, Hicox thought, as he followed each line with his fingertips and it told him far too much about the other man. The Germans themselves had tried to break him – or win his loyalty through brutality – over and over and clearly failed. What made Hicox think he could succeed where the vicious discipline of the Wehrmacht and Schutzstaffel had failed? 

It was then that he realised Stiglitz had stilled under his fingers. It was at this point that Hicox's made his second mistake. There was a point in time he should have known to leave well enough alone, and he missed it.

"Stiglitz?" Was that rasp his voice? It was more than just a residual response to Stiglitz's hands around his throat.

"Yes... sir?" There was a burr in Stiglitz's own voice. Maybe something had happened to Hicox's hearing. Maybe he wasn't hearing what he thought he was hearing from both of them; good Lord he hoped that he wasn't. That he was. He didn't know.

It took him almost too much effort to pull this back to a place where he was in control again (ironic that he felt this slipping through his fingers when he wasn't the one bound to the bed end and theoretically helpless), where he could remember the rage that had enveloped him when they'd returned from  _La Louisiane_. Twisted to watch him with his ice-hard eyes, narrowed and intent, Hicox was sure the Jerry knew what was passing through his mind.

And when Stiglitz sneered he remembered it all. Remembered that this man had almost completely blown their whole mission, almost ruined their one great chance to end this fucking war. The rage blossomed in Hicox again, fire red and hot in his flesh. It made his skin feel tight across his temples.

His movements were automatic as he stepped back from the bound man, casting his eye about. His gaze lit on another coil of leather; Stiglitz's civilian belt, and Hicox recognised in it the leather strop Stiglitz had been using earlier to sharpen the knife still clutched in his fist.

Well.

Belting the shit out of the Jerry wasn't necessarily going to impart any well-needed discipline, but Hicox was sure it was going to make him feel a damn sight better about this whole situation. He suddenly wondered if that was the reason for Stiglitz's layer upon layer of flogging. His history was one of insubordination, that much was obvious, and surely his commanding officers should have realised the futility of lashing this man.

Even knowing that, as Hicox let the smooth, supple leather uncoil in his hand, he knew it didn't make a difference. Later he might regret it, might loathe what it revealed of his character, might despise the darker side of him that wanted to break Stiglitz as much as force his loyalty in this, the most important thing they would ever do in their lives. But for now he wanted to  _hurt_  Stiglitz. 

Hicox slid the knife into the top of his boot and straightened, running the leather belt through his fingers. He remembered the Jerry using it as a strop; the steadied, measured movements and the way he'd barely paused to speak to a superior officer. His tone had been borderline disrespectful, the 'sir' catching up thickly in the back of his throat to come out as a purred insult. Stiglitz didn't call Raine 'sir', spoke to him with respect, and yet.

And yet.

The leather warmed quickly to touch, as soft and warm against Hicox's fingers as Stiglitz's skin had been. "What are you waiting for... sir?" Stiglitz said mockingly. He could see what was coming and it wouldn't make a lick of difference to his own behaviour. 

But this was not for Hugo Stiglitz. This was for Archie Hicox.

It was Hicox's turn to sneer and he flicked the leather against Stiglitz's bared side without warning. The only noise was the sharp slap of the belt on skin – not hard enough to hurt, just to sting and startle. By Stiglitz's complete lack of reaction it was unsuccessful, which was to be expected, really. Someone with his history... it  _should_  take more than a flick of the wrist to draw a reaction. 

His next blow was without restraint, laying a heavy weal in a diagonal stripe across Stiglitz's back. That one move opened the floodgates and in a red haze of fury Hicox viciously flogged the Jerry until he was winded, falling back as he gripped his aching shoulder (the deep pain of old wounds revisited), his fingers digging hard into tight, sore muscles. Throughout the lashing Stiglitz hadn't made a sound but as Hicox stepped back, the leather belt tipping loose from his fingers to fall snakelike to the floor, the Jerry's head sagged and he let out a low moan. 

Perhaps it wasn't meant to sound like that, perhaps it was just pain to Stiglitz, but the sound hit Hicox like a freight train. He licked his lips and swallowed, reaching out blindly to steady himself on the wall. 

The Jerry was bent over his hands where they curled around the top bar of the bed end, his back red and thick with welts. Hicox was pleased to see he hadn't broken skin because it hadn't been his intention; it he'd hoped there was at least a part of him that was better than those German officers who'd left Stiglitz's back a network of scars.

Stiglitz slowly straightened, turning to glance back over his shoulder. Hicox was almost completely unprepared for the expression on his face. Half-lidded eyes barely concealed the smoulder and his lips were parted in what Hicox couldn't be sure was pleasure or pain.

"You—" Hicox cleared his throat. "You enjoy taking it as much as giving it, don't you?" he said, his voice pitching down into a completely unintentional husky purr. 

The Jerry blinked slowly at him and then smiled. It was a feral baring of the teeth. "As much as you, sir." There was nothing subtle in the way he moistened his lips, slowly looking Hicox up and down in a way that brought a hot flush to Hicox's cheeks, so different from his flush of rage only moments before. It was true; Hicox was just as aroused as he was mortified that Stiglitz knew. He took a stuttering step forward, his fist lashing out to catch the Jerry on the mouth. Stiglitz stumbled, lurching to the side before recovering, again turning to look at Hicox, this time with blood on his teeth as he grinned, his tongue darting out to touch the small split in his lip. 

Hicox flexed his fingers. If only the premiere was not the following night, he'd beat that knowing grin right off Stiglitz's face. Instead he did the only thing he could think of doing, stepping in close and gripping the back of Stiglitz's head (he wished Stiglitz's hair was longer so he could pull on it, hard) and crushed their mouths together. He could taste the Jerry's blood and his smokes – maybe they'd be French ones by now, too hard to find German smokes in the backwaters of provincial France unless they were stolen off corpses – and Stiglitz growled right into Hicox's mouth, arching in with his body and tugging furiously at the bindings that restricted him. The movement reeked of desperation and the heavy bed heaved and skittered a little across the floor. Stiglitz's growl was louder and frustrated as Hicox slowly drew back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

Was this how Raine kept his pet Jerry under control, then? With abuse and a deft touch?

Stiglitz watched Hicox with hungry eyes. Whatever it was that he thought Hicox was offering he wanted it. Oh, did he want it. 

For the first time Hicox felt a surge of control over Stiglitz, that he was in control of this situation now like he'd never been before. He'd tapped into something, some need that Stiglitz needed fulfilled and Hicox could  _use_  that. He's given Stiglitz the stick, now it was time for the carrot. So to speak.

"On your knees," Hicox said and Stiglitz sank to the ground. There was something about his big frame in a position of submission, his shredded shirt and broad back striped deep red that sparked deep lust in Hicox. He licked his lips, almost unable to breathe for a moment over the power of it and pressed the heel of his hand firmly against the thickening weight of his cock trapped within his trousers.

Then reaching down, he placed his hand on the back of Stiglitz's neck. The Jerry was taut under his hand and Hicox felt a slight shudder run through him. 

"You want this." Repeated and again, a statement, not a question. 

Stiglitz looked up at him. Without any hesitation he said, "Yes, sir." There wasn't a hint of insubordination now, although his voice hadn't lost the husky tone that had struck Hicox before they'd gone across to  _La Louisiane_. He'd been intrigued by it then too.

"What do you want?"

That made Stiglitz hesitate, a loaded pause as his jaw worked before he said, "You."

Hicox leaned in. "I don't think I caught that. What do you want?"

Stiglitz's eyes narrowed and his lips curled in a faint, silent snarl of frustration. Then he raised his chin, challengingly. "You,  _sir_." God, it was true, Hicox was never going to get sick of hearing Stiglitz call him 'sir' like that.

Hicox leaned closer, squeezing the back of Stiglitz's neck. The Jerry didn't flinch though it must have hurt. " _What_  do you want?"

Stiglitz's eyes fluttered and he gave a soft, hitched breath. He leant forward, the muscles in his arms bulging as he strained against the belt. "I want you, sir."

Hicox kissed the Jerry again hard. Stiglitz still tasted like blood, metallic and sharp, and it wasn't really a kiss, too harsh for that. Stiglitz shoved his tongue in Hicox's mouth. For all Stiglitz was in the position of submission Hicox still had to battle with him for dominance in the kiss, and the obscenely carnal slide and thrust of Stiglitz's tongue against his hit him hard below the belt. Still gripping Stiglitz by the neck, Hicox pulled away gasping, and fumbled to drop his trousers down his thighs. 

"Do I get my hands?" Stiglitz asked. He was still straining forward, his eyes flicking between Hicox's face and his crotch. He licked his lips. It wasn't a lascivious tease, just the flick of tongue wetting lips.

Hicox smiled thinly. "No," he said and pulled Stiglitz's face in against the jut of his cock. The big Jerry could do him a hell of a lot of damage, but Hicox was confident in the lust he'd read in the other man. 

Then the Jerry mouthed at him, all wet lips and tongue up and down the full length of his shaft and Hicox had to grab at the bed end to steady himself. Stiglitz leant forward, muscles bunching and shifting under the abused skin of his broad back compelling viewing – until Hicox watched his cock disappearing into the Jerry's hot mouth. He groaned, the noise shockingly loud in a room quiet but for the obscene wet noises of Stiglitz sucking him off and the soft grunts of pleasure he was making while doing it. 

Hicox was sure Stiglitz had done this before. He was too adept for it to be his first time, enjoying it too much to be robbed of any dignity. Curling his hand around the back of Stiglitz's head, Hicox again wished the Jerry's hair was longer so he could twist his fingers through it, tug and guide and thrust into the Jerry's hot, wet mouth. Fuck his mouth hard, bruise his lips, make him gag it down. God, this was too good. He closed his eyes, biting back a ragged moan, pushing his hips forward. 

Maybe Stiglitz did this to Raine, or Donowitz, or even the Austrian Jew, Wicki. He didn't think Stiglitz would lower himself before the little Basterds, but how would he know? Maybe Stiglitz serviced all of them. Maybe this was what the Jerry was to the Basterds.

Then Stiglitz made a rough, growling noise around him, tugging at the belt on his wrists again in futility. He was panting heavily when he pulled off Hicox, his mouth red and wet. "Bitte," he said in a low, rough voice. "Please." Hicox shook his head, too close to release to revel in the Jerry begging and forced Stiglitz back down. He could feel the controlled ache of his orgasm building in the base of his spine. All it took was the light scrape of Stiglitz's teeth up the underside of his shaft and he was coming hard, jamming the heel of his hand against his mouth as he groaned Stiglitz's name, hips bucking against Stiglitz's mouth as he held the Jerry's head firmly in place to take it all. 

And Stiglitz took it, breathing heavily through his nose as Hicox came. His mouth worked as he swallowed, and when Hicox's grip on the back of his head eased he pulled off, settling back on his haunches. He looked up at Hicox defiantly, like he hadn't just done something Hicox was sure most men would consider abasing themselves. Stiglitz's chin was wet with spit and come and when he touched the tip of his tongue to the corner of his mouth ( _tasting_ , Jesus), Hicox swallowed hard.

His hands were trembling as he tucked himself back into his trousers – still slick and wet from Stiglitz's mouth; it was uncomfortable but dignity had to be regained as soon as possible – and he bent, taking the knife from his boot again. He set the edge of the blade against the leather binding Stiglitz's wrists, and ignoring the snarl of indignation from the Jerry, he sawed through the leather until the Jerry could tear free.

Stiglitz shot to his feet, glaring at Hicox with all defiance, though he still hadn't wiped his face. Hicox jerked his chin up, flicking the blade out so the point was angled towards the Jerry's broad chest. The poor lamplight rippled down the marked surface with the faintest quiver of Hicox's hand as Stiglitz stepped forward, the tip pressing into his skin. "This is mine," he growled, his English thicker than ever, his hand closing over Hicox's on the hilt of the knife, pushing the blade aside (and the tip nicked into his flesh, deeper than the cut on Hicox's fingertip, drawing a bead of blood to the surface that Stiglitz didn't even notice). The Jerry stepped in even closer and with his free hand curled around the back of Hicox's neck, he hauled him in and kissed him. 

It was harder than before and wet and Hicox could taste himself now, an extra layer over the taste of violence and smoke and he shuddered. 

Before he even realised what was happening, Stiglitz had slammed him hard into the wall, pain exploding behind his eyes as his head cracked sharply backwards. He fumbled at first to fend the Jerry off, but Stiglitz wasn't on the attack. 

Not like that, anyway.

There was vicious desperation in the way Stiglitz bit at his mouth (and Hicox groaned, because if it was possible he could get it up again he would), in the way he rutted up against Hicox. He didn't last, but then he didn't need to. He fumbled with his trousers and then before Hicox knew what it was on about he'd come, wet white streaks painted across the front of Hicox's uniform. The Jerry gasped roughly for breath through a sly smile as Hicox looked down at the mess. "I — you damn—!"

Stiglitz shrugged out the shreds of his shirt and shoved the rags into Hicox's hands. He fumbled with the material, still disbelieving as he cleaned up the deliberate mess Stiglitz had left on his clothing. His heart was still pounding in his chest, and it leapt into his throat when Stiglitz grabbed him, one hand by the wrist, the other by the chin and shoved his head back. His thick, blunt thumb forced in between Hicox's lips. 

The Jerry leant in close. "We should do this again some time," he said, his voice a raspy purr. His breath was hot against Hicox's neck, and his low laugh echoed in Hicox's ears as he let him go and pushed out the door, shutting it with a slam behind him.


End file.
